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FOR LOVE AND LOYALTY 


BY 

PAUL SEATON 


Copyright, 1905 

BY 

PAUL SEATON 


BUFFALO, N. Y. 


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FOR LOVE AND LOYALTY 


CHAPTER I. 

May, 1745. 

Heigh-ho ! I am getting to be but an old fellow 
now, and well-nigh half-a-century has rolled away 
since the commencement of the events which I 
propose to set down here. Well-nigh half-a-cen- 
tury I with all the marvellous changes which it has 
pleased God to bring ahbut' in that time. And I 
have grown old with the century, and have begun 
to prefer my book by the fireside to my gun on the 
hillside, which is to me at any rate perhaps the 
most wonderful change of them all- Not but that 
I have ever had a liking for books, inherited, no 
doubt, from my father; but mine has been no 
fireside life, but rather one of change and adven- 
ture, so that I can say in truth: “Militari et non 
sine gloria’^ — for in great attempts even failure is 
glorious. 

Now, however, I have laid aside the sword, and 
while there is yet time I would take up the pen, 
and set down the tale of those lohg-ago events, so 
that when the time comes that the little ones can 
no longer cluster round my knees on winter nights, 
and listen to the oft-told tales of the “Bonny 
Prince” and the fatal '45, the recollection of these 


things may be preserved, and the stor}^ of their 
forefathers not utterly forgotten. 

It is not history that I would write, but just my 
'.own slight share of the great events then afoot, 
■^and all they brought to me, and so to my descend- 
ants. 

Never again shall I look upon the cloud-capped 
hills and rugged corries, the silver lochs and amber 
streams, of my boyhood’s home. And, perhaps, 
’tis as well. For gone are the clans of our fore- 
‘ fathers, and scattered o’er many lands are their 
"descendants. The bare hillsides and deep glens, 
which once resounded with the skirling pipes, are 
lone and deserted ; while in our ruined towers and 
smoke-blackened homes the hoarse raven alone 
keeps watch. 

Now, as I sit looking into the glowing embers, 
the pictures of those days rise up before me with 
such swiftness that I scarcely know which to 
choose and where to begin. Yet, amid them all 
there is one which ever springs up quickest in my 
mind: a scene upon v/hich T love to dwell; an 
event which seems to be the ke\' to all subsequent 
events; a picture which forms the natural frontis- 
piece to this book of my life. 

How it all comes back to me as I muse over it, 
warming my old blood with the fire of youth, and 
making my heart beat quick again. I see the 
daughing loch sparkling in the sun; the dark 
mountMn on the farther side, overshadowing my 
■home with its gloom; the brighter shore on which 


we stood, where silver birch and golden broom 
grew down to kiss the waves ; and beside me my 
queen, who had just promised to be mine. 

There was a small fire of pine wood burning 
near, filling the air with a pungent scent ; and even 
now, away here in this great western land, far 
from Dunleven and the silver loch, a chance 
breath of that burning wood in my nostrils will 
bring the whole scene flashing to my mind before 
I realise what it is that recalls it. Then again I 
see my love beside me, and hear, soft as the sighing 
of the wind amidst the leaves, the confession of her 
love and self-surrender. 

From that hour my whole life seems to date. 
Before that I had been a boy, forgetful of the past, 
heedless of the future. Now I felt a man, with 
all the pride of responsibility and manhood — new 
born of the right to love and care for another. 

As an only son, my boyhood had been rather a 
lonely one. My mother had died while I was yet 
an infant, to the lifelong grief of my father, who 
henceforth shut himself up with his books, seldom 
going beyond the walls of Dunleven, but preferring 
to spend his days in study, and musings on the 
former glories of our house. 

This latter was, in truth, not a very cheerful 
occupation; for though we could trace our line 
straight down from the Somerled, Lord of the 
Isles, and through the chiefs of the MacDonalds 
to Angus Oig Maclan, first Lord of Dunleven. who 
founded the glories of our house, yet this earlier 


greatness only served to throw our present little- 
ness into sharper relief. Evil days had fallen 
upon us, and what a bitter feud with the Campbell 
had begun our devotion to the royal cause in the 
troubles of the last century had ^ completed ; so 
that my father, sixth Lord of“Dunle.ven though 
he was, could scarce summon ten men for every 
hundred who were wont formerly to muster at 
Dunleven’s call, and could leave to his heir but an 
empty title, a gloomy castle, and a few barren 
acres. Poor and proud, he wore out his wearv 
days, mixing but little with the world beyond, too 
poor to keep up equal show with his equals, too 
haughty to mingle with his inferiors. 

I would that I could draw his portrait for you; 
for there are no such men nowadays, and he lingers 
in my memory a grand old-world figure, whose 
simple, yet stately grace forms a strange contrast 
with the men and manners of the present day. 
Picture him, then, somewhat bent v/ith age, yet 
still a commanding figure, invariably dressed in 
black — he preferred the French mode to our nation- 
al garb — which contrasted vividly with his snowy 
ruffles and the long silver hair which flowed to his 
shoulders, scorning alike the artiflcialities of wig 
or powder. A clear-cut face, with aquiline nose, 
and grey-blue eyes whose Are no age or sorrow 
could dim. In general he wore but a weary air; 
but even to the last his indomitable resolution, 
once roused, enabled him to venture and achieve 
far beyond his natural strength. 


For the rest, my boyish recollections centre 
round the old castle, with its lonely rooms and 
echoing passages, and the lochs and hills, where I 
loved to roam with rod and gun, accompanied by 
my foster-brother, Donald Dhu, son of our old 
steward, Donald M’Neil. My only other com- 
panion was my father’s chaplain, who, as time 
went on, became my governor, instilling into me 
some portion of his own store of learning, and 
eventually, as I grew towards manhood, taking 
me abroad to finish my education, as was custom- 
ary with the sons of Highland chiefs. 

So the years rolled on uneventfully until, about 
the beginning of the year 1745, I returned home, 
as I believed, for good. My father was well 
pleased with .me on my return. Though only a 
little above the middle height, I was, he declared, 
quite presentable; while my skill in the French 
and German tongues was second only to that with 
my small sword. But outwardly at any rate, his 
joy was as nothing to that of my faithful Donald, 
whom I found grown up ki my absence into a fine, 
stalwart fellow — a typical Highlander in all save 
his dark colouring. With him I began to resume 
my old life, wandering with my gun through the 
glens and over the mountains, and as the warmer 
spring advanced fishing in the streams and loch. 

Soon, however, I began to tire of this. Life, 
existence I should say, without any definite aim 
had been pleasant enough in Paris and other gay 
Continental cities; but at home, though I loved 


each wild mountain, lonely loch, and heather- 
covered hill, I began to sigh for the gay compan- 
ions of former days. I felt that, in spite of my 
ancient name and noble lineage, my life, save in 
comfort, was little better than that of the poorest 
MacDonald in the glen. Was it for this, I asked 
myself, that I had visited the Court of Versailles? 
Better that I had never left the hills and heather. 

^ 1 determined to ask my father’s intentions 
concerning me, and if he had none definitely 
formed, as I sometimes suspected, to seek his 
permission to enter the service of King Louis, as 
so many of my countrymen had done. But the 
question was" fated never to be asked^ for before I 
had a favourable opportunity an event occurred 
which put all else out of my head, and led to that 
commencement of my career to which I have 
previously alluded. 

It came about in this manner. On the morning 
following the making of my resolution, I went to 
my father’s room with the intention of carrying it 
out immediately; but as I stopped on the thres- 
hold I heard his voice mingling with that of our 
factor’s, and feeling that my business was too 
great to be broached while my father’s mind was 
yet full of rents and taxmen and similar topics, I 
turned away with mingled feelings, half glad to 
put it off, half sorry not to have got it over and 
done with when I had so carefully primed myself. 

Coming out in this mood^ I felt indisposed to 
pass a quiet day with gun or rod. I felt I must 


talk to someone. I needed sympathy. But 
where to get it? And then I remembered hearing 
that Alan Cameron had lately returned home 
from France, where he had been, like myself. 
Here was one who could understand, and with 
whom I could talk. Further, he had a cousin 
who was already in the French service, and so 
might be able to advise me. Him, then, I deter- 
mined to seek; so bidding Donald get the boat 
ready to cross the loch, I went to put on a French 
suit of pearl grey laced with silver in place of the 
Highland garb which 1 had resumed on my return 
home; for there were ladies at Glenmore. 

Soon I was seated in the boat, tiller in hand, 
guiding the little craft over the leaping waters. 
And then I began to think what excuses I should 
make to Lady Cameron for not coming to pay my 
respect earlier. She had been very kind to me 
in m)^ boyhood, pitying, I suppose, my motherless 
life. There were others, too — Dugald Cameron, 
Laird of Glenmoro, who, in accordance with the 
Highland custom which I shall adhere to, was 
commonly known by the name of his lands; and 
Alan, and the latter’s sisters. One of these was 
about my own age. I remembered her just a 
budding woman when I went abroad, and I won- 
dered carelessly what she would be like now. Alan 
and I spoke but little of our home life w^hen away 
in France, but I recollected something of her being 
betrothed to a MacLeam Well, I should not break 
my heart. I had grown to prefer the darker 


beauties of France to the charms of our simpler 
Scottish maidens — at least I thought so. Her 
; younger sister I could recall also — a mere child,- 
with a cascade of golden hair, fair as the pictures 
of angels which I had seen in Dresden. 

But here Donald aroused me from my musings, 
and in a few moments the boat’s keel grated on 
the pebble-strewn shore, and I landed in the 
/Cameron country. An easy walk up the glen, 
which opened out to the loch at the point where 
we had left the boat, brought me within sight of 
Glenmore. 

The old house did not seem much to look at 
after the chateaux of France; but a cotsman’s 
house in those days was designed more for use 
than ornament, and even then might occasionally 
be required to protect its occupants from other 
attacks than those of the elements. The older 
portion consisted of a high, square tower, with 
little, round turrets projecting from the four upper 
corners, and narrow slits of windows, barred in 
the lowest storey. From this on either hand ran 
.. out the more modern wings, whose larger windows 
^-and more open look proclaimed their later datd: 
Finally, a still farther extension of hitchens and 
offices connected the main building with the stables 
and so completed the strange jumble of roofs and 
turrets. 

Avenues, terraces, fountains, pieces of orna- 
mental water, and the many other artificial attrac- 
tions with which the more pretentious chateaux of 


France are surrounded, there were none. A large 
lawn in fronts a few trees near the house, and some 
gardens, where gay flowers and humble herbs were 
curiously intermingled, to the rear — the whole 
surrounded by a plain stone wall, with a gatehouse 
in line with the front of the mansion — completed 
the picture which lay before me, and afforded no 
mean specimen of a Highland gentleman’s home 
in the days of my youth. 

I was not long in reaching the house, and there 
learned my mission was fruitless ; for Alan and his 
father were away, and would not be back for some 
days. The ladies, however, were at home, and 
common politeness alone demanded that I should 
pay my respects to them, so in a few minutes I 
found myself making apologies to Lady Cameron 
for not having come over before. 

Three months I had been home, she said, without 
ever stepping over to greet my old friends. She 
was afraid I had forgotten the kindly Scottish ways 
in my long sojourn abroad. With my best bow I 
protested that I had not forgotten my old friends, 
but had only waited for Alan’s return, that he 
might present me afresh to their kindness. 

‘Tor why should you remember a poor exile 
like myself? The Lady of Glenmore has so many 
calls on her time that she might well be excused, 
remembering a poor gentleman who had naught 
but his na e to recom end hi .” 

“And does the Master of Dunleven need more?” 
she asked. “Come, Ronald, a truce to these 


French politenesses; remember this used to be 
.your second home, and unless you have changed > 
’is so still.” 

And then, after a polite inquiry after my father, 
she asked if I had seen the King and the Chevalier 
de St. George, as we used to call him, lately. A 
I was answering her questions the door opened, 
and a slight fair girl appeared ^ hesitated aninstant 
when she saw that Lady Cameron was not alone, 
^nd then came shyly forward, to be presented to 
me as: ^^My second daughter, Eilean, whom, no 
doubt, you scarcely remember.” 

Eilean ! Could this be the child I remembered so 
thin and tiny? She was not big now — I remember 
noting that with pleasure, for I am not a big nian. 
myself — but so changed; Without having any 
distinct portrait in my mind I seem to associate 
her former appearance with her feet and elbows, 
facts which speak for themselves, but now there 
stood before me a slender, graceful maiden with 
tiny hands and feet, which latter, as Sir John 
Suckling says: 

“ , ; . beneath her petticoat 
Like little mice stole in and out.” 

I cap see her now, a faint flush clouding with pink 
the snowy whiteness of her heck and face. Here 
and there a tiny freckle betrayed the place where 
the sun had snatched a kiss, and at the same time 
iserved to mark out the dazzling whiteness of the 
Burrotmding skin. Her hair hung down her back, 
as was customary with us until marriage^ but was 


gathered in at the neclr with a ribbon instead of 
flying wild as formerly. I have already said that 
it was golden. Not the pale straw colour which 
often passes by that name, nor yet the deep 
auburn, but a true golden, tinged with a dash of 
copper, which gave it warmth and lustre. 

For one moment her eyes met mine, and then 
the dark lashes swept down, and veiled them from 
my sight; but 1 had looked into their dark blue 
depths, and seen there such purity and innocence 
as I did not think were to be found on this earth, 
I do not exactly remember^ but I fear that I must 
have stood thus spellbound for a moment. Then 
I found my tongue. : 

protest Lady Cameron uses me with undue 
severity in accusing me of such forgetfulness. Let 
me assure Mistress Cameron that, so far from for- 
getting her, my thoughts centred on her as I 
crossed the loch just now.’’ 

^‘You are very kind,” she replied, blushing still 
more; and for an instant the dark lashes lifted, 
and afforded me another glimpse of the glorious 
eyes below: I could almost have wished those 
dark, “fringed curtains” less long that I might 
have caught and held the glance they veiled — ■ 
“more kind, I fear, than I, for I confess I should 
scarce have known you again.” And the sweet, 
low voice trailed slowly away, as though frightened 
at its own music. 

, What a contrast she was to some of the ladies 
whom I had had the honour of knowing abroad. 


Park, vivacious, brilliant, beautiful with the beauty 
of a southern night, as hers was that of our clear 
northern dawn. A flowery compliment wWic 
aforetime might have been rewarded by a tempting 
glance from some pair of black flashing orbs, 
accompanied by a coquettish rejoinder, ided 
unspoken from my lips, and is was with all sin- 
cerity that I expressed the wish that I might be 
allowed to atone in the future for past negligence, 

I learnt that Glenmore and Alan had gone to 
visit Cameron of Lochiel, who was cousin to the 
former, ^^on his Majesty’s business,” and would not 
be back for some days, I fear, however, that I 
showed a most disloyal lack of interest in his 
Majesty’s business until the course of the conversa- 
tion revealed the fact that I had seen Prince 
Charles shortly before I left France, Then the 
interest I aroused 'led me to dilate on this subject. 

I do not remember what I said, or how I de- 
scribed his Royal Highness. I spoke only to 
interest the fair youngiace before me, and through- 
out the rest of my visit my only thought was how 
to drink in every tone of her sweet, low voice, to 
watch the colour come and go beneath the trans- 
parent skin,; and to look as often as I dared info 
^the limpid depths of those wonderful dark blue 
eyes, where only truth and innocence seemed to 
find a place. 

I do not mean that I was actually conscious of 
all this at the time. No thought of love crossed 
my mind then, but afterwards, when I was alone, 


I realised it all, and more than I can now set down. 

When I saw my father that evening I made no 
mention of my determination of the previosu day. 
He asked after Glenmore and Lady Cameron, and 
looked grave when he heard of the visit to Lochiel. 

“Glenmore is grown sadly restless of late,’’ was 
his comment. “He is here to-day and gone 
to-morrow, and small good will come of it, I fear. 
Lochiel was wont to be a prudent man as well as 
a bravo one— a rare combination in these times — 
and will, perhaps, advise him well, though Glen- 
more is ill to advise.” And so the matter ended. 

So I plunged into the river of love, letting it bear 
me whither it would — not as the timid, who,- 
having felt its strength, struggle fearfully against 
the stream in their endeavours to regain the place 
whence they plunged, but as a strong swimmer 
rejoicing in the swiftness of his course. Heyday! 
little did I foresee whither the torrent would carry 
me in its flood! 

I do not intend to enter into the details of the. 
happy days that followed. Scarcely, I think, 
would it interest others to learn what excuse I 
made for a speedy renewal of my visit to Glenmore, 
where I drank still deeper of love’s intoxicating 
cup. Details like these, indeed, have passed away 
from my memory, while others seem too sacred 
even to be committed to paper. I only remember 
it now as a sort of golden period, when the sun 
seemed to be always shining; when Eilean and I 
wandered through the fresh, green woods and 


the silver streams, supremely hap|)y in each other's " 
love, though never a word of love had passed 
between us. Here and there some bright but 
trivial incidents linger in my memory, standing 
out through the golden haze which love and time 
have combined to cast over that period; but such 
are not for other eyes and ears. 

And yet the sky had clouds even then. As I 
look back closely through the mists of time I see 
how sleeplessly the long night through T tossed, 
pondering how I might tell her of my love, for as 
yet I had not dared to speak of it. How could I 
break it to her? I knew. I loved her with all my 
soul. I must win her, or. die! 

But she? How could I tell her this? I felt such 
vehemence would terrify iier,* and yet I want(?d 
her to realise the depth and- ardour of my love. 
iCould she love me? I asked myself a thousand 
times, and tried to twist some meaning into, or 
extract some comfort from, chance phrases of hers 
which I recalled. Why should she love me? What 
had I to offer her? True, I was the Master of 
Dunleven, heir to the ancient title, but many a 
-Lowland farmer could summon as many men to 
his call. If I had had wealth and power worthy 
of my name, what then? Was Eilean one to be 
dazzled by rank and wealth? The very thought 
was an insult to her pure, innocent nature. No ! 

Eilean would give herself where she loved, and 
how could I hope to win that love? What was it 
that such a girl would love? And my tortiued 


fancy drew a very Bayard, whose like I could 
never hope to be. I might have hoped to win her 
parent’s consent for my name’s sake, and trusted 
to her to fulfill her part as a dutiful daughter. But 
that would not satisfy me : I would have her love 
uninfluenced and unguided. 

Again, I would think that, perhaps, I had it 
already. Had ^he not come down to the burn-side 
where I was fi&hing that day, and days before, and 
laughed to hear my protest that the trout were 
finer and more wary there in Glenmore than on 
our side of the loch? I could hear again her gentle, 
cooing laugh, as she declared that certainly fishing 
in Glenmore seemed hard, to judge by my success 
when she was by. Could there be a meaning to 
that simple speech? Pshaw! I was in Scotland, 
not France. The remark was all innocence, like 
herself; and I felt a kind of shame at my thought, 
and even because I had suggested that she would 
find me fishing there if she cared to come, and that 
I could tell her more of the strange world I had 
seen abroad. 

I think it was this feeling of shame, and fear lest 
I should be doing her a harm by even our simple 
intercourse, that determined me to venture all on 
a hazard, and tell her of my love. If she loved me 
it would be of her goodness and not that I deserved 
it, and therefore nothing was to be gained by delay. 
If not? — well, then, nothing mattered; and so I 
had best follow my usual plan when in difficulty, 
and get through with it. 


But though I can recall all these daiibts and 
hopes and fears, I cannot recall the accompanying 
pain — and pain there must have been. I only 
recall the joy of that time as I look back through 
the golden glass of memory; and I thank God that 
it is so, and that memory is ever thus kind. 

And so there came that eventful day which I 
mentioned in the first of these pages. It was a 
bright morning in the late spring as I crossed the 
loch. The little boat danced over the sparkling 
waves as if it were a thing of life, and knew my 
errand. Everything seemed bright and full of 
hope, and my heart leaped with the boat, and grew 
light with the fresh breezes. 

As if to encourage me, as J stepped on shore a 
slight form appeared in the opening of the birch- 
trees which fringed the strand, and my love stood 
before me. 

I raised her little hand to my Ups in salutation, 
and we stepped together into the little birch wood. 

^‘Yes,” she said in answer to my query, ‘T am 
early; but I must leave you the sooner. My 
mother has need of me to-day, for my father has 
sent word to say that he will not be long of being 
with us now. But you have forgotten your rod.” 

“No; it is not forgotten. I did not bring it 
to-day, because I have something of deep import 
to say to you.” 

My grave tone seemed to startle her. 

“Nothing is amiss,” I continued, trying to 
reassure her; “only, if you will permit me, I 


would like to consult you upon a certain matter.’^ 
“I am afraid I shall make a poor counsellor,-’ 
she replied; ‘‘I am such a wee thing, you know.’^ 
Was it an unconscious appeal to me to sparb 
her youth? Indeed, she was little more than a 
child. 

‘‘None the less, you are for me the one counsellor 
in all the world. Did I ever tell you, Eilean, for 
what it was I sought Alan on that day when first 
I came over? I wanted to consult him anent my 
entering King Louis’ service. I felt so lonely here; 
I was existing, not living.” 

“Have we no king of our own, Ronald,” she 
replied, softly; and my heart leaped at the sound 
of my name on her lips, “whom you should serve 
rather than the French King?” 

I felt nonplussed for a moment, and feared that 
she saw what was coming, and was striving to 
turn me, and spare me the pain of refusal. But 1 
was determined to go through with it, and know 
the worst ; so gathering coolness from what seemed 
to me the very hopelessness of my cause, as one 
does when entering on a forlorn hope, I went on: 

“You are right, dear; but it is not with that I 
would acquaint you now. Something has changed 
that — something has come into my life, has 
entered my heart, and changed all my desires and 
hopes. Have you never a guess what that some- 
thing, is, Eilean?” She was trembling now; I 
could feel her hand quiver in mine; and as I 
looked at her all the colour seemed to die away 


from her fair cheeks. What a child she was ! What 
a barbarian I to frighten her so! How I longed 
to take her to my heart, and comfort her; but I 
dared not yet. 

‘‘Eilean, surely it does not surprise you to hear 
that I love you? — for I do with all my heart and 
soul. I love you, and if you will but consent to 
be mine I will devote all my life to your happiness. 
With you I will carve my way to fame and power, 
and will strive to make all your life a dream of 
love and happiness. Without you all will be naught 
and I cannot endure to live. Can you not love me, 
Eilean?’’ , ‘ 

“Oh, Ronald, I have never taught of this; I 
am so young.’’ 

“Dearest, is not that rather an encouragement? 
I too am young, and therefore we are not too old 
to learn to understand each otheyj and to love each 
other fully. Our very youth is a promise of future 
happiness. Can you not love me a little, Eilean; 
or must we say good-bye to-day? You will not 
send me back to exile in France? You do not 
want me to leave you, dearest, do you? 

^ “No, Ronald; I don’t want you to, leave me; 
hut I have never thought of this before. Give me 
but a little time, and wait till I am a little older. 
;1 should make you such a foolish little wife.” 

. “Then you do love me,” I cried, for I saw a 
yielding in her last words. “Ah, forgive me that 
I spoke so fiercely; I did not mean to cause you 
pain. No, dearest, we cannot leave it till later; 


it would not be right to continue growing daily 
more near and dear to each other, as we have been 
doing, with no spoken word between us, even were 
it possible. As a man of honour, I must speak to 
your father on his return, but I want first of '^ll 
to hear from your own unguided lips that 3'^ou love 
me. And you do love me a little, don^t you?'’ 

think so,” she whispered softly; never 
thought of it before; but I could not bear to 
think of losing you, Ronald.” 

Then I seized her in my arms, and gave her a 
true lover’s kiss on the lips. 

‘‘Mine before God and man, my own love. My 
wife in the future, my queen for ever. God helping 
me, I will be your true loxe; and if ever I fail in 
aught of love and duty to }^ou, may He punish 
em as I deserve, by robbing me of the love you 
have given me.” 

And so I leaped from boyhood into manhood, 
and all my life was changed. Ah! it is long since 
then, and far away are the sparkling streams and 
dark glens of Glenmore. Hardship and pain and 
loss of home were to come from that hour; but 
never through it all have I ceased to thank God 
for the love He gave me that day by the silver 
strand of Loch Leven. 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 

The sun was high in the heavens ere we parted 
that day at the turning of the glen. 

As I stood there, watching the little figure 
wending its way along the road, what seas of love 
welled up in my heart for her, so slight, so tiny 
there on the narrow track between the mountains^ 
I almost longed for some danger to threaten er, 
so that I might come to the rescue and old German 
legends of knights who slew monstrous dragons, 
and so won life and happiness for those they loved, 
came into my mind. But, alas ! we lived in other 
days, and our dragons were not to be slain in a 
few moments’ combat with sword and. lance. So 
I waved a last adieu to my love as she entered the 
gatehouse, and then turned, and made my way 
down to the shore, where Donald awaited me with 
the boat. 

As I neared the latter the castle of Dunleven 
came into view on the farther side, perched high 
above the waters of the loch, on the end of a spur 
which ran out frdmT the dark mountain “behind. 
Bare and g^nt, it stood like some grim sentinel 
keeping watch over the laughing waters below. 
I suppose it was the old castle looking so cold and 
lonely even in the bright sunshine, or perhaps the 
dark, steep-sided mountain, which rose straight up 
behind it; but something seemed to cast a shadow 
over the joy which was reigning in my heart, and 


Uiy thoughts flew out to the gloomy tower and to 
a lonely figure within. 

How would my father receive my news? Some- 
how I felt that he would not view my proposed 
marriage with pleasure; and yet what objection 
could he raise? My bonny Eilean was all that man 
could desire, and worthy to be the greatest lady 
in the land r. no one could gainsay that. Her family 
was an ancient and powerful one; no clan stood 
higher in the Highlands than the gallant Camerons, 
although, like ourselves, they had lost much of 
their ancient power at the hands of the all-devour- 
ing Campbells. What, then, could be urged as 
lacking where youth, beauty, and birth were so 
united? Yet there was something lacking, and I 
knew it; but with the buoyancy of youth I fl\irig 
care to the winds — at least for the present; -‘Atra 
cura,^^ may sit behind the horseman, as old Horace 
avers, though I fancy he is a bad horseman, and 
falls off at a galop, but never was it heard that he 
perched on the rudder of a flying boat; and cer- 
tainly before I was half way ovier the loch I felt 
ready for anything which might happen. 

And so I turned to Donald. Poor fellow, his 
part in my new-found happiness had been small 
enough. His sole occupation lately had been to 
cross the loch each day, almost in silence. No 
more the skilful cast o’er the deep pool, the sudden 
tightening of the line, the rush and swirl in the 
amber waters of the stream, the long battle of 
skill and patience against strength and cunning. 


and the final victory. No more the well-planned 
stalk through glen and corrie, the long, breathless 
climb and noiseless crawl, hugging each rock and 
patch of broom and heather, till at last the gun’s 
deep note rang out the death knell of the stag. 
Instead, the lonely shore, the idle rippling of the 
waves, or, at best, a chance gossip with some 
Cameron herd. 

, “This is poor, lonely work for you, Donald,” I 
said. , 

“Not so lonely as when the Master was in 
France; not so poor but that I shall sigh after it 
in the busy days coming,” he replied in Erse. 
For, like most of his class, he used English only 
when necessary, although he spoke and wrote it 
well enough when he chose. 

“Why, Donald, you speak. like an oracle. Have 
you, too, found that there are 'bright eyes in Glen- 
more? And what are the busy days coming?” 

He reddened a shade, as if my former suggestion 
>vere possible, and then replied, still in the same 
veiled way : . 

“It is the spring, when all the birds are mating, 
but if the blackbird shall whistle through the glens 
many;. a bird will mourn her mate.” 

Now, “the coming of the blackbird” was one of 
the many metaphors which we used in those days 
to refer to the expected landing of the Prince — 
just as a “rise in the price of hemp” conveyed 
danger. We had a host of such useful phrases, in 


whose symbolism the naturally poetic nature -of 
the Highland people found a welcome outlet. 

“And think you, then, the blackbird will come 
soon?’’ I asked. 

“Who can say what the day has been till the 
night comes? And who should know better than 
one so newly from the south as the Master of 
Dunleven?” 

Yes; no doubt, I ought to have known more 
than I did, seeing that I had so recently seen the 
Prince; but, though I was ready to shed my last 
drop of blood for him, I had no head for plotting, 
and troubled myself but little^cwith the rumours 
which came and went like the wind in the moun- 
tains. But now these rumours seemed to? have 
gained a new importance for me, and I began to 
think of what effect it all might have on my new- 
found happiness. 

Oh, the selfish world that lovers live in! Here 
was a great event approaching, which must bring 
death and sorrow to thousands, whichever side 
might win ; which would divide families and 
peoples, bring fire and sword through those peace^ 
ful glens, and dye crimson many a leaping burn, 
and all I thought of was how would it affect two 
people. And straightway I began to build castles 
in the air, wherein I saw myself attained to fame 
and fortune in the service of the restored King, 
with Eilean by my side, my bonny birde; but 
somehow I could not see my father therein. 

I waited till after the midday meal, for, as the 


old proverb says, “it’s ill talking on an empty 
stomach/’ and then I asked my father’s leave to 
say a few words on an important subject. How 
well I recall his kindly tones as he bade me say on. 

“Sir,” 1 began, '‘what I have to say to you may 
come as a surprise to you, but I trust will not be a 
shock, but rather give you pleasure, seeing that I 
have taken a step which concerns the welfare of 
our house, and which I trust will meet with your 
approval.” 

“If the step you have taken concerns the welfare 
of Dunleven, would it not have been well to have 
consulted the head of Dunleven first?” he replied. 

“I crave your pardon, sir; but I think you will 
agree when I have finished that I could not well 
speak earlier. To come to the point, sir, I have 
this day offered myself in marriage to Mistress 
Eilean Cameron, and she hath done me the honour 
to accept of that offer. And oh, father,” I con- 
tinued, as a vision of Eilean rose before me, “if you 
only knew what a wealth of goodness and purity 
dwells within her you would feel with me that 
never was lady more fit to grace Dunleven’s 
castle.” 

The blue eyes softened and lost a little of the 
stern look which had come into them, and my 
father bowed his silver head as he replied : 

‘T doubt not, my son, you could scarce have 
chosen better for goodness, sweetness, and beauty, 
but” — and there my heart fell, for I knew what 
was coming — "unless you can provide yourself 


with a fortune as-rwell as a wife, I scarce see how 
you propose to maintain her in due state. When 
you asked her to be your wife, did you acquaint 
the lady with the fact that you had nothing to 
keep her on?” 

^‘Sir,” I exclaimed, my blood^ rising at what 
seemed to be a covert sarcasm; “I did not dis- 
honour my love by making it a matter of bargain 
and sale, Hitherto, as your son, I have thought — ” 

^‘You thought what, forsooth? That I would 
naturally provide for you, perhaps?” 

‘Well, sir, I fear I have not thought much at 
all,” I replied, beginning to feel angry and humili- 
ated. “Had you not intended doing so you might 
have brought me up to do so for myself, and not 
made me a beggar, with no right to call myself my 
own.” 

“Heyday! but these are strange words /to a 
father. Prithee, manage thy matters with more 
courtesy, my son. I have not refused to provide 
for you; but, seeing that mine is the only home 
you have to offer your future wife, I think I might, 
perchance, have been consulted first in a matter 
which disposes of my property.” 

I was ready to break out again; for, in truth, I 
began to feel my love a very small gift indeed, and 
myself very different from what I had seemed in 
my own thoughts that morning; but my father 
held up his hand: 

“However,, the thing is done. I might say you 
have made your own bed, and must lie on’t as 


best you can. But to what end? You are my 
only son, and when I am gone who is to carry on 
our ancient name but you? I say no word against 
the lady of your choice, nor yet against her family, 
though I had very different views for you. For 
the present, then, the thing is done. You have 
pledged your troth, and cannot break it, therefore 
must you ask Glenmore’s permission to-morrow; 
and when you do so, fail not to acquaint him with 
exactly what you have to offer, nor be surprised 
should he prefer a richer son-in-law.” 

“Sir, I care not what he prefers; I will marry 
Eilean with or without his permission. Think you 
if I have thought right to oppose even you, that 
I will allow any other to come between us? If I 
am a beggar I will carve my way to fortune with 
my sword; but. Tore Heaven, marry Eilean I will.” 

“Perhaps the lady herself may not care to share 
a beggar’s bed,” remarked my father quietly. 

“Eilean loves me, and that is enough for me. 
God helping me, I will be true to her, come what 
will.” 

“Boy, you are beside yourself. You drag in 
God’s name to strengthen your selfish purposes — 
yes, selfish! What right have you to steal away 
a mere child’s love and cause her to leave home 
and parents, to share, it may be, hardship and 
poverty? Do you call that love?” 

“Sir!” • •' 

But he went on: , 

“You will win fortune with your sword forsooth. 


And she, meanwhile? Would you offer her a 
bag^ge waggon for a home; or would you. ask her 
to wear out her youth waiting for the fortune 
which may never crown your efforts? Go! Think 
over your plans, and to-night we will talk upon 
the matter again/ ^ 

There was no meeting his arguments, so I 
bowed, and, leaving him, made my way to a little 
nook, which I had contrived when a boy, high up 
in the mountainside above the castle. There I 
flung myself down, and looking away over the 
loch below to the sunny shore beyond, where but 
lately we had been so happy, I began to think 
over all that had happened since. 

How happy we had been! What a glorious 
thing our love had seemed! How proud I had 
felt of my new-found manhood, and-what splendid 
castles I had built — on air! And, now that I was 
back at Diinleven, how changed everything 
seemed! How cold and gloomy the castle in the 
shade below, so different from the brightness 
yonder! And to-morrow I was to bring this gloom 
to Glenmore, and change the sunshine there into 
sorrow. No; it would still be bright there; it 
was only Dunleven, that was gloomy. Why 
should I not leave Dunleven, and go forth into the 
brighter world to win fame or fortune, or perish 
forgotten? And Eilean, meanwhile? as my father 
said. No; I must be more practical. 

How weak my manhood seemed now ; and that 
love which I had bestowed, how poor! A curse 


rather than a blessing. Yet there must be good 
in it. Surely a pure love must be good — and I 
knew that my love was pure. I had sworn before 
God to make her happy; then God would aid me. 
So 1 began to think over the scene with my father^ 
and saw how badly I had begun with my pompous 
allusion to the welfare of our house, and my anger 
at his plain words. I had been selfish, and my 
love was not quite as grand a thing as I thought it. 
Well, as my father said, it was done; and now to 
make the best of it. I would speak to Glenmore 
to-morrow, and if he refused I must release Eilean, 
and woo fortune as a soldier. 

“Oh, Eilean! Eilean!” I cried, “what sorrow I 
am bringing on thee ; better hs-dst thou never seen 
me!” 'But just then a blackbird in a neighbouring 
.bush broke into a joyous carol. I took it as a good 
onien. The blackbird would come soon, and in 
his service I would win to fortune, and all would 
yet be well; so. I strode down the mountain light- 
hearted again — poor, delusive omen! 

The conversation that evening dwelt largely pn 
the prospects of the Prince’s coming. That he 
would come sooner or later we knew to be certain; 
but when? The Highlands were ripe for revolt as 
far as the majority of the smaller chieftains and 
their immediate following were concerrfed. But 
my father feared the ambition of the greater nobles 
and chiefs. He declared that the ’15 was a bad 
prologue for the coming venture. All the great 
chiefs were ambitious, and^ wished to increase their 


power ; raid the moral of that affair was that those 
who looked on had the best of the game. 

‘‘No/’ he said finally, “it is not here, nor yet at 
the Court of St. Germain, that the matter will be 
decided. Louis of France or Elizabeth Farnese 
will determine the matter for us. If France or 
Spain will help us with a sufficiency of men and 
arms the great chiefs will come out, and then, I’ll 
warrant, James the Eighth will wear his crown 
within six months of his standard being raised. 
If they won’t, he’d better stay in France.” 

Remembering what I did of Prince Charles’ 
boldness and impatience, I thought how ill he 
would brook being made the pawn of these two 
cunning rulers, and said so.. 

“Faith! and that may be,” said my father; 
“but what other can he do? To land with insuffic- 
ient support would make but another ’15 of it.” 

I was over the loch betimes next morning, to 
find an unwonted air of bustle about the house, 
and Eilean nowhere to be seen. At the door stood 
Alan, a masculine counterpart of his sister, giving 
orders to knot of gillies, who dispersed at his words 
like a pack of hounds released. 

“Come it, and welcome!” he cried, catching 
sight of me; and as we entered the house together, 
he dealt me a brotherly clap on the shoulder, 
aflding: “No need to state your business; a little 
bird hath already Ayhispered me* its purport. Go 
in; my father is in the oak parlour; and good luck 
to you!” 


I wonder if every man feels foolish when he goes 
on the errand which I am describing. I did, and 
paused a moment at the door to callect my self. 
Alan whispered a parting caution: 

“Be canny, man! He’s that big with the busi- 
ness we’ve brought home that he may think but 
small of your billing and cooing.” 

. I entered the oak parlour, a small, dark room, 
wainscoted high with oaken panels. A small fire 
had been kindled, for it was still chilly in the early 
mornings, but- was almost smothered beneath a 
heap of half -‘burnt papers. 

It was never a bright room, and seldom used 
save on rent days, but it was darker- than usual 
this morning, by season of a great ' nail-studded 
chest, which stood on a table, blocking up the 
window. ' 

Glenmore was engaged among the papers, with 
which the chest'- was apparently- filled,' and the 
clink of gold fell on my ear. " At the sound of the 
rushes crackling under my feet he started up, and 
the lid fell with a clang. 

He was a splendid specimen of a stalwart High- 
land chieftain, in the prime of manhood. His 
broad chest, if anything a little over-broad for his 
height, firm walk, and deep voice giving the lie to 
the iron grey with which his once raven-hued hair 
and beard were tinged. His usual air and carriage 
gave one the impression of fierce pride and reck- 
lessness overlaid by a good-humoured bindliness, 


but the look which he east on me this morning was 
an unwonted one of suspicion. 

I went straight to the point, and told him my 
business. To my surprise he appeared neither 
astonished nor pleased, nor yet angry. His usually 
expressive features remained unmoved, and he sat 
pulling his short beard and looking at me in silence. 
I knew not what to make of it. 

Then he rose, stamped the blackened papers 
farther into the embers, and facing me squarely, 
said: ‘‘Ronald, ye have been. straight and to the 
point, and I will endeavour to be the like. I have 
naught against ye; but what for ye? Oh ay,” he 
added hastily, seeing that I opened my lips, “oh 
ay; ye are Master of Dunleven, and a’ that, but 
that’s no’ what I am meaning. There’s a greater 
affair afoot, lad, than yours or mine, and on it they 
must hang.” 

Now, thought I, if Glenmore is endeavouring to 
be plain. Heaven help me if he waxes diffuse ; but 
he continued: 

“Tour father and 1 have taken many a hand 
together in this same game in the old days, now 
we work in different lines; but you, Ronald, what 
do you in the game? Mind, I name no names, but 
no AVhig nor time-server shall ever have daughter 
of Glenmore.” 

His voice had risen out of control; I knew now 
what he was driving at, and it was hard to swallow 
words which from another would have called out 
my sword. 


“Whig!’^ I cried. , 

‘‘I call no names/' he repeated. 

'‘There is no need, sir; Whigs and Maclans have 
naught in common. I am as loyal to King James 
as yourself." 

“In deed as well as word?" 

“To the death if need be." 

“Then there's my hand on't. Not that there 
can be any word of marrying now, Ronald," he 
added. “Eilean is o’er young yet, and times are 
troubled, but when the King enjoys his own again, 
as by Heaven he soon shall, then ye shall have her, 
with my blessing." 

It was in this strange way thast I became Eilean's 
recognised suitor. Not till long after - did I see 
tha, in a measure, my darling had- thus been made 
the prince of . my loyalty — a reflection .which caused 
me no small feeling of humiliation and anger. 

For the present, however, afl was. sunshine. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE COMING OF DALMYLE. 

I was soon admitted into the secret of Glen-^ 
more’s business, which was astensibly nothing 
more than the raising of a company for Lord 
George Murray’s regiment of Highlanders, better 
known now as the “Black Watch.” 

The latter force, as is well known, was originally 
composed of companies raised by the different 
Highland chiefs for the purpose of keeping the 
wilder districts in order. Each company consisted 
nominally of seventy-five or one hundred men; 
but, by the simple expedient of constantly replac- 
ing trained men- by recruits, it formed a most con- 
venient training-school for the entire clan of the 
chief, who had permission to supply it. At the 
time of which I write, however, the Black Watch 
had been diverted from its original purpose, and 
was serving in the Low Countries — a circumstance 
which to some extent paved the way to success for 
Glenmore’s scheme. 

As yet no company had been raised from the 
Camerons, who under their late chief. Sir Ewan 
Cameron, had been much too turbulent to enjoy 
the confiednce of the Government. Indeed, it was 
to overawe him that some of the original companies 
had been raised. Under the leadership of the 
“gentle” Lochiel, however, they had now been 
quite for some time. So after much correspondence 
with Lord President Forbes anent the difficulty of 


restraining young blood and the anxiety of the 
Camerons to serve their King — which King was 
not stated — pernaission had been granted Glen- 
more, as LochieFs lieutenant^ to raise a company 
of Camerons, which was to be sent to join the Black 
Watch as soon as it was complete. 

Th raise this company, or rather, under that 
pretext, to arm and drill as many of his followers 
as possible, without .attracting the suspicion of the 
English garrison at Fort William, was Glenmore’s 
present scheme; and he hoped that, by the time 
it was complete, he. would be able to find other 
work for it. than fighting in the Low Countries. 

I instantly offered my services, which were 
readily accepted, as I had acquired a smattering 
of military knowledge when abroad. I also pro- 
posed to bring such of my own immediate followers 
as I could to drill with the newly-raised company; 
for, although in the event of the clans coming out 
they would follow Glencoe, they would be all the 
better for the training. 

Besides this, Gleninore had much important 
news to tell. Alan had returned from France with 
the information that the Prince was showing great 
signs of impatience at the vacillations of the French 
Minister of Foreign Affairs, M. D’Argenson, and 
had, he believed, been secretly collecting all the 
money he could, and making arrangements for 
the purchase of the vessel. 

This had induced Glenmore to journey over to 
Lochiel, who was at once one of the most loyal and 


one of ilie most influential of the clan chiefs. 
There he met with John Murray of Broughton, 
afterwards the Prince’s secretary, who had just 
concluded a series of visits to a number of the great 
chiefs who were thought to be loyal, and was about 
to send a report of the same to the Prince. The 
result of the confabulations with Lochiel and 
Murray would have been sufficient to dash the 
hopes of an}^ man less ambitious and impetuous 
than Glenmore. 

The gallant Lochiel himself had counselled 
caution and patience. Like my father, he declared 
that, unless sufficient support were forthcoming 
from France and Spain, the ambitious and jealou- 
sies of many of the great chiefs would keep them 
waiting to see how events turned until it was too 
late. Further, he doubted the sincerity of King 
Louis and his minister in the matter. For his 
part, he declared, his life and all that he had were 
his sovereign’s ; but he advisfed patience , for 
another ’15, said he, would ruin the cause for ever. 

Nor was Murray of Broughton’s report encourag- 
ing. The Campbell, as they well knew, was for 
the Elector of Hanover; Breadalbane was the 
same; MacDonald of Slate and MacLeoid were 
doubtful, as were several of the great families in 
the east; while no dependence could be placed on 
Lord Lovat. But in spite of these facts, Murray, 
like Glenmore, hoped against hope. 

‘‘Let the Prince but show himself/’ they said, 
“and the clans will rise as one man, with such fury 


that the half-hearted chiefs will be forced to lead 
them out, for very shame’s sake.” 

Murray declared that this was also the opinion 
of the young Duke of Perth, one of the most 
zealous supporters of the cause. 

Of course, Glenmore was of the same opinion, 
and almost quarrelled with his kinsman of Lochiel 
over what he called the latter’s half-heartedness. 

'‘Let his Royal Highness come,” he cried, "with 
or without the aid of King Louis and his crafty 
ministers. What do we want with the Frenc in 
our glens? Let them send a man-of-war or two to 
the Thames mouth, and frighten German George, 
so that he will keep his red coast at home for a 
little— that is all we want. And if they won’t, let 
them stay at home and be damned for me. By 
Heaven ; the Prince will find enough true' High- 
land hearts to welcome his coming, and swords 
enough to win him back to his own again, without 
the aid of either Frenchmen or over-cautious 
chiefs.” 

So Murray’s messenger had sailed for France 
laden with the most discouraging reports of some 
of the greatest nobles, but, nevertheless, as events 
showed, disposed to encourage the Prince in his 
belief that he had only to show himself in person 
for ambition to change into loyalty and intrigue 
into honesty. 

Meantime Glenmore had returned home, believ- 
ing that the blackbird’s whistle would be heard 
before the leaves were off the trees, and all the 


more anxious to arm and drill his followers^ 
through the medium of “King George’s Regiment 
of the Black Watch.” 

It will easily be imagined with what eagern'ess I 
flung myself into these plans. Love, loyalty, and 
ambition all combined to urge me on to such an 
extent that the more sober counsels of wisdom 
passed unheeded or forgotten. 

It was not until the evining, as we walked down 
the glen on my homeward way, that I had oppor- 
tunity to tell Eilean of the events of the morning ; 
but then the glen became an enchanted valley of 
love, so that we scarce dared to speak for fear of 
breaking the spell. 

Of course, I did not acquaint her with all our 
political plans, nor tell her how soon we expected 
his Royal Highness. Hy happy love seemed to 
think of the coming campaign only as a triumphal 
march to the capital, where the King would 
resume his own again, and we would be united 
never to part, but to live happily ever after, like 
the prince and princess in the fairy tales. 

Happy, happy dreams! Why should I disturb 
them? 

My father fell in with Glenmore’s suggestions 
readily enough. I think he admired the plan of 
postponing the question of marriage until the' 
King should enjoy his own again as a convenient 
method of shelving it altogether. Not that he 
doubted the ultimate restoration of the Stuart 
dynasty — no loyal Scotsman in those days would 


have permitted himself to do so— but he thought 
that some years must necessarily elapse, and some 
less cautious minister replace the vacillating 
D’Argenson, before we should be able to count on 
the requisite help from France. In the meantime 
our boy-and-girl attachment, as he regarded it, 
\vould probably come to an end. As to the other 
matters, he took a pinch of snuff, and smiled. 
They would keep us all quiet, was his comment; 
and, faith ! he wished King George joy of his new 
company. 

And so time went on, and the fresh, keen days 
of spring were succeeded by the longer ones of 
summer. It grew hot down in the glens and out on 
the bare hillsides, so that we sought shade in the 
birch woods, down by the loch, where the breezes 
swept in fresh from the sea; or climbed high up 
into the dark-browned mountains, where the wind 
blew strong and cool. Thence, looking down, we 
could see all the land below, laid out like a map : 
hill and valley, loch and streani, all so tiny, in the 
distance, that it almost seemed ofie might pick up 
Dunleven in one’s hand and set it down in Glen- 
more; as I often wished could be done, that I 
might be nearer to my love. 

What airy castles we built; what glorious plans 
we made; how we discussed the trivial details of 
our future life, and settled it all beforehand! How 
confident we were, too, in all our talk, of the happy 
coming, when the King should enjo}^ his own 
again ! 


Sometiiiie& for a change we would take the boat, - 
and, spreading the brown sail to the wind, fly 
away down to the broader waters of the Linnie 
Loch. And then the boat became a fairy craft, 
bearing us away to unknown isles of happiness, 
where care was not. What tales I told then to the 
little, blue-eyed nestling with her golden head 
Against my shoulder — tales of foreign cities and 
peoples and their ways; of France and the mag- 
nificence of Versailles; of quaint old towns in 
Saxony and Bavaria ; of the Helvetian mountains, 
which I had beheld from afar, crowned with the 
unmelted snows of all time. What plans we made 
to travel and see them all, and more besides! 
Italy, Rome with its mighty ruins; and that 
strange city, Venice, where no streets are but 
waterways, no carriages but boats. 

One day we crossed over to Dunleven,, and 
climbed the steep causeway that led to the castle. 
There I showed my sweet mistress the home over 
which I hoped she woul(L one day reign : the great 
hall with ;its antlered walls; the little turret room 
looking out on ^#16 loch, my own peculiar sanctum, 
where often I sat at night, looking over the dark 
waters which ceaselessly lapped and fretted below. 

And then I made' bold to take her to the library, 
where I knew my father would be ; but she, learn- 
ing whither I would lead her, hung back shyly, 
hesitating at the very door, and would have dis- 
suaded me, all fears and blushes. And so it came 
to pass that it was my father who, hearing voices 


without, came to the door^ and himself welcomed 
Eilean to the inmost sanctum of Dunleven. How 
proud I felt of her as I presented her; how sweet 
she looked as she curtsied low, in the old-fashioned 
way! And he? Well, though a man be never so 
old, a pretty face and gentle manner will move 
him; and though but little was said at the time, 
beyond a kindly welcome on his part and a shy'^ 
acknowledgement on hers, that short interview 
proved to h^ve been of no small importance in 
later days. 

You who read these pages must forgive an old 
man lingering on what may seem to you but the 
trivial details of an ordinary love stary. To us 
they were far from trivial, and to me now these 
memories of the past are very sweet. Those of 
you who have loved, even though in vain, will 
understand, and from those of you who have not 
yet tasted of God’s greatest gift, I ask patience; 
for the time will come when you, too, will have 
some golden period in your life to look back upon, 
and when it does, may it be from the throne of 
Love triumphant. 

Thus June melted into July; the days grew long; 
the broom, vieing with the gorse in brilliant bloom, 
dropped, and fell; July waxed and waned towards 
August; and still we lived on in our foolish para- 
dise of love, nor dreamt of the crash so near at 
hand. 

It was towards the end of July, if I remember 
rightly, that Colin Robertson of Dalmyle arrived 


to disturb our Arcadia. As a rule, I have ever 
been one to greet all men kindly, and live peace- 
ably with them, unless I have good reason other- 
wise; then, if there must be a quarrel, I hold that 
one good fight is better than many bickerings. 
But I must confess that I disliked this man the 
moment I set eyes on him. It is hard to set down 
the exact cause of this, but so it was. Doubtless 
his appearance helped, but it was not altogether 
that. 

He was a big man, a hand’s breadth taller than 
myself, broad in proportion, and well set up. Not 
that I disliked him for that, I like such — big 
bodies usually hold big hearts — but that his did 
not, I could read in his face. A big face, broad in 
every way, nose and mouth, and especially across 
the cheek-bones, with a strong, heavy jowl, the 
bigness of the latter intensified by the sparse 
planting of his ruddy beard, through which the 
sheltered skin showed in fair contrast to the tan 
of the more exposed parts. Not a handsome face 
certainly, yet by no means an ugly one. Jovial, 
perhaps, one might have called it at first sight; 
but closer inspection revealed a certain cat-like 
expression, due to the close setting of the eyes, 
'which, in me at any rate, inspired distrust. Many 
'd doubt not, would not have noticed this, and 
would have pronounced it a fine, open face; cer- 
tainly the broad, firm chin showed that, once 
determined on a thing, he would be ill to dissuade. 
But In my opinion his eyes betrayed a cunning 


which would urge him to win by foul means what 
he could not gain by fair. It may be that I speak 
as one prejudiced, and in the light of after events, 
so let me hasten to do him justice by adding that 
I believe he would rather have played an honest 
part; but Fortune played him a sorry trick, and 
left him no alternative but to stoop if he would win. 

/He was an adept at all Scottish sports, could 
shoot flying, and was “gey ill,’^ as he would have 
said, to cross swords with. Added to this, he had 
a -und of dry if somewhat coarse humour, which 
would set all the company in a roar, when ladies 
were not present, and which was not always too 
nice when they were. It was soon quite evident 
that he greatly adnlired Eilean; but I could have 
afforded to laugh at that, had it not been that her 
dislike of him was mingled with a kind of fear. 
As it was, I could do nothing while he was Glen- 
more’s guest but watch him carefully, a compli- 
ment which he returned, so that we were like two 
dogs bound by a common leash, eyeing on another 
suspiciously, and waiting but for its removal to be 
at one another’s throats. 

This feeling of restraint seemed to spread 
gradually over the whole house; no one could be 
sure of Dalmyle’s politics, although Glenmore 
tried hard to make him commit himself one way or 
the other; but he fenced all questions, and resisted 
all efforts to draw him out, till we began to suspect 
he must be a Whig at heart. Still, Glenmore did 
not choose to quarrel with ‘him, and so be rid of 


him. Pdlic}^ as well as hospitality forbade such a 
: course, for he was wealthy, and would be a valu- 
able addition to our cause. 

He had, too, one redeeming quality in Glen- 
more’s eyes, which, curiously enough, went far to 
making him unbearable in mine, and which in the 
end led to an open rupture between us. This was 
the intense but narrow patriotism which he 
affected. Himself but a Robertson through his 
mother, he was more Highland than the High- 
landers. His father had been one John Ker^-ia 
Lowlander of some wealth, who had married the 
heiress of Dalmyle, and, in accordance with the 
; Highland custom, assumed the name of the clan 
of which he became a member by marriage. 

It galled me to see this fellow, who was half a 
Lowlander, assume all the airs of a Highland 
chieftain, nay, of a chief, travel with a tail of men, 
and talk of “his clan” as though he were the Laird ^ 
of Struan himself. He sneered at all foreigners 
and their ways, particularly at the French, thereby 
striking by implication at my French upbringing. 
Nevertheless, he had been at great pains to acquire 
; ;all he could of French politeness at second-hand, dn 
Edinburgh, The result suited him about as well 
as my French clothes would have suited Donald 
Dhu. “The politeness of a dancing master,” Alan 
once described it; and certainly when he saluted 
Lady Cameron or rose to open ^ door for Eilean, 
there was an exaggeration in his bow, a strict in 


his walk, at which did; not know whether to 
laugh or frown. 

In spite of the manners which he effected, he 
declared that French ways and French morals were 
the ruin of Scotland, and that, for himself, he 
thanked God, that he had been brought up on his 
native heather as a true Highlander. 

It will be imagined how pleasing -this was to- me; 
but Glenmore, though he had sent Alan abroad at 
Lady Cameron’s request, was not at all ill-pleased 
with the sentiments, being of the^ same patriotic 
spirit himself. 

However, at last the strain grew too great, and 
the leash snapped. I blush now to think that it 
was my doing, in spite of my superior education. 

We were discussing swordmanship. He, affect- 
ing the experience of superior age — he had the 
advantage of me by some four or five years — and 
the spirit of a true Highlander, vaunted the superi- 
ority of the claymore over the small sword. I, as 
became a pupil of the Sieur Gerard, maintained 
the claims of point against blade. 

‘‘Man,” he cried, sneeringly, in his broad east- 
coast accent, “ye’re a pretty callant to claim 
kinship wi’ Ronald o’ the Claymore! Where wad 
be yer bit French toothpick before my guid clay- 
more?” 

“Through your ribs before ever you could swing 
it half way up for the cut,” I cried. “’Tis a pretty 
weapon for the charge, I grant you, as many a 


^.Lowland Whig has found ere now to his cost, but 
rfor single combat 

“Ay, ay, yeh-e a gran’ swordsman .wi^ yer tongue, 
nae doot, but gin ye were put to the practice 

“Wliere and when you like, now, an’t please 
you?’^ And forgetting the tolerance due to a 
fellow-guest, I jumped to my feet, and pointed to 
the door with my sword. He gave one of his 
exaggerated bows as though he would have 
accepted my invitation; but Glenmore sprang up, 
and would have none of it ; so for the present the 
matter dropped. 

It seemed but a trifling dispute at the time, such 
as a couple of youngsters might have any day, 
and be but the better friends for it after, but in 
reality it was the beginning of a lifelong feud. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE BLACKBIRD WHISTLES. 

A few days later Alan and I started off to shoot 
in the mountains — Dalmyle, who was to have 
accompanied us, remaining at Glenmore with a 
sprained foot. We did not regret the loss of his 
company much, I fear; but it went to my heart 
to leave the fellow so near Eilean, though there 
was no help for it. 

It was a dull, wet morning on which we ststrted. 
The hilltops were wreathed with mist, which now 
and again swept down into the glens, blotting 
everything out of sight, only to melt again as the 
sun burst out through some dark cloud, and for a 
brief space filled the whole scene with warmth and 
colour— making the wet grass more green, and the 
purple heather more purple, and turning each drop 
of moisture, as it hung pendant-wise from its leaf, 
into a flashing diamond. 

Such a burst of light and colour had just filled 
the glen when I bade adieu to Eilean. I can recall 
now her dainty appearance; her dark, simple dress 
clinging to her slight figure, her Scottish “bonnet,” 
plumed with a single feather, set jauntly on her 
golden curls, as she turned to me from sporting 
with my great deerhound Roy. 

“What a beauty he is, Ronald,” she cried — “so 
grand and strong, with such kind, wise eyes! I 
would I had one like him to take care of me while 
you are away.” . ^ I 


“Dear love, he is yours now if you will take him/^ 
I answered; “it will comfort me greatly to think 
you have so good a guard when I am absent/^ 

‘'Nay, Ronald, you are too good, I did not mean 
to ask for him ; but if ever you have to go far away 
perchance you will lend him to me, but not to-day/ • 

“With all my heart, little one. And now,- good- 
bye.’’ , 

And so we parted, and I hastened on to join 
Alan, who, with brotherly consideration, had gone 
on ahead. 

We enjoyed very fair sport that and the follow- 
ing day, passing the night in a small shieling high 
up in the mountains. But on the third morning 
our plans were brought to a sudden end. Just as 
we had succeeded in getting within range our 
quarry vanished suddenly^ like a puff of smoke 
from a gun’s mouth. 

“What a plague can have started them?” cried 
Alan, springing to his feet. 

I pointed to a gaunt Highlander in the Cameron, 
tartan, who came swinging down the pass at that 
half walk, half trot, which Highland gillies assume 
when they have a great distance to cover quicldy* 
He seemed in great stress^ as we saw when he came 
nearerj^ but slackened his pace as we approached. 

“For Cameron of Ossian from Lochiel,” he 
cried, holding out to Alan a letter which he took 
from his sporran. 

“I am Ossian’s kinsman,” replied Alan; “what 
news does Lochiel send in such haste?” 


The n nn looked at me doubtingly. 

^‘Speak out, man,’^. cried Alan; “we are all 
friends here/^ But the man drew him aside, and 
whispered in his ear. Alan started, and I caught 
the words: “Whence gou you your intelligence? 
Himself?’’ The man nodded. 

“Great news — glorious news!” cried Alan. “The 
Prince hath landed at Borrowdale.” 

I tossed my bonnet high in the air. ^‘'God save 
King James!” I cried. And so we received the 
great news. 

Further questioning did not elicit much from 
Alan’s gaunt clansman. He had not seen the 
Prince himself. Loehiel had visited him on board 
his ship, the Deutelle. He had only heard of one 
ship, but doubtless there were others. Loehiel 
was at Invarlochy, and summonses had been sent 
to all the chieftains, and now he mnst on to Ossian. 

' Gf course, we turned straight back for Glenmore 
with all speed. But little was said on the way, 
each had plenty to fill his thoughts, and men 
travelling as we were, need all their breath. It was 
evening ere we reached Glenmore, but within the 
hbuse bustle and preparation were already in full 
swing. Glenmore had received a letter from 
Loehiel the evening after our departure, and had 
at once despatched a gillie after us, who must have 
missed us in the mountains. Messengers had also 
been sent to all his tacksmen to assemble with their 
followers at Glenmore in three days. 

In the meantime arms were brought out, pro- 


visions got ready, and all possible preparations 
made. At the same time we learned how serious 
the undertaking was to be. The Prince had 
arrived with only one ship, a small provision of- 
arms and ammunition, and but seven companies; 
nor was there any promise of help from France, as 
the expedition had been made with the utmost 
secrecy, not even King James being aware of it. 

Glenmore’s spirits, however, did not seem in the 
least dashed. His was one of those ardent minds 
which rise proportionately with the danger, which 
glory in action, but which cannot brook delay nor 
patiently bear misfortune. 

I was pleased to find that Dalmyle had already 
tieparted. His hurt must have been but slight, for 
as soon as we were gone he had risen,, and had a 
long interview with Glenmore.. What passed 
between them I did not learn till much later; but 
after some heated words he had called for his pony 
and departed as suddenly as he came, whither no 
one seemed the know or care — certainly not I. 

I found Eilean busy sewing yards of white 
dbbon into cockades; but she looked sad, and the 
white ribbons were scarce paler than her cheeks. . 

‘‘There’s my brave Eilean,” I whispered as I 
saluted her; “have you never a one for me?” 

She rose, smiling, but without her usual gaiety, 
and silently showed me a dainty white silk cockade, 
and a knot of the MacDonald tartan, clasped by a 
silver brooch — a little silver arrow which I had 
aften seen her wearing herself. Then, taking my 


bonnet, she fastened it over the base of the eagle's 
feather, and placed it on my head. 

“God protect you from all harn, Ronald; but oh, 
my heart is sore.” 

“Dear love, ’twill be a charm to cheer my heart 
when lonely, a talisman to ward off evil.” And I 
took her in my arms, and endeavoured to soothe 
her fears. ’ 

I did not stay long at -Glenmore, just to get 
“bite and sup,” and then hurried on to Dunleven. 
How would my father take it? I wondered. He 
had declared that any attempt without aid from 
France meant utter ruin. What would he say 
now? I could not think clearly,- my mind was in 
a whirl. Hopes of victory, forebodings of separa- 
tion, visions of the future, recollections of my 
darlings brave words and sad looks, rose up within 
me in endless confusion. But the predominating 
feeling of which 1 was conscious was one of vague 
but certain elation. 

It was night when I reached Dunleven, and I 
went straight to my father. He was reading, and 
seemed surprised at my unexpected return. 

“Back so soon, my son?” 

“Father, I bear great news; but have you not 
heard?” 

“I have received no messenger of good or ill,” 
was his reply, but I thought he seemed to know 
what was coming. 

“The Prince hath landed at Borrowdale. Glen- 
more had intelligence of it from Lochiel two days 


ago/’ And I quickly told him all I knew. A« I 
proceeded with my story he grew more and more 
restless, but when I stated the secret nature of the 
expedition, and the smallness of the Prince’s 
means, he started to his feet, crying out: “Mad- 
ness!” and strode up and down the room, repeating 
the words: “Madness! Madness!” 

Even as I finished my tale, and stood waiting,. 
I heard the baying of my great hound Roy, without 
in the gatehouse. Who could this be? I wondered. 
Visitors to Dunleven were rare, and at night few 
travelled in that wild region. My father heard too> 
and stopped his hurried walking to and fro to 
listen. The wind moaned uneasily round the old 
walls, and a window, casement shook so that we 
could not hear anything clearly. Thus we stood 
listening to the sobbing of the night wind without 
for a space. A sudden .chill seized me, and I shiv- 
ered. Then a low knock, and the door opened. 

“A Tetter from Glencoe, my lord.” And again 
we were alon. Without, the wind rose almost to 
a howl as I stood silently watching my father 
break the seal. He glanced hastily over the page 
with lowering brows, ami then flung it down on the 
table with the single word: “Madness!” I ven- 
tured to pick the letter up. It ran as follows: — 

Invercoe, 

August ye 2nd, 1745' 

Sir, — being convinced of yr well-tried loyalty 
no less than of the warm affection you bear 


myself, I write thus informally to acquaint you 
that his R. H., having landed at Borrodale, is 
about to proceed to Glenfinnan in Moidart, where 
he will attend our motions ye nineteenth of this 
month. 

As I have particular orders to raise my conttrie 
I doe beg the favour of you, that on receit of these 
you doe exert yrself to the utmost of yr power to 
raise all yr followers, wheresoever they be, as his 
R. H. hath brought but a small following with him ; 
and that you doe join me at all convenient speed 
at^Mvercoe. 

Assuring you of the particular esteem of his 
R. H., 

I am. 

Your lodrship’s most humble servant, 

, A. MacDonald. 

P. S. — Should you fail in yr duty, wch God 
forbid, I hope I shall be excused for carrying out 
mine. 

What possessed Glencoe to add this veiled 
threat I do not know. If he had any suspisions of 
my father’s loyalty to the cause he could scrcely 
have chosen a course more likely to lead to their 
realisation. But I fear that we Highlanders were 
all better at fighting than diplomacy. 

‘‘Well-tried loyalty!” cried my father, catching 
at the phrase. “Ay, God knows, o’er-tried again 
and again. And now this hare-brained boy will 
ruin us with his mad folly.” 


‘‘.Sir/' I ventured, “his Royal Highness, who, 
comes to peril his life for his father’s throne, surely 
deserves some more loyal epithets than ‘hare- 
brained,’ and ‘mad.’” 

“Madness and folly it is,” cried my father. 
“Here have we been plotting and scheming for 
years, gaining the promises of all the chiefs, all on 
the understanding that we were to be backed with 
aid from France — all this, the work of years, to be 
ruined in a day. How many of them, think you,^ 
will consider their part binding now that the Prince 
has not kept faith and brought the promised aid 
from France? How is it binding, forsooth? aWhat 
can we do unsupported against the wealth of 
England? What can a few thousand Highland 
claymores, though brave to madness, do against 
the army whih the Elector of Hanover can bring 
into the field? The English will not join us, I tell 
you. They are too lazy and prosperous as it is. 
No! We shall be starved out in our mountains, 
and the cause will be ruined for ever. But I will 
have none of it,” he continued, stopping suddenly, 
and facing me with blazing eyes. “Not one step 
shall I take, or any of mine. We have suffered 
enough for the Stuarts, and what thanks have we? 
Not even a letter for ourselves, but must be sum- 
moned through Glencoe, like any of his tacksmen. 
I will write to Glencoe now; I will write to the 
Prince himself.” And he turned to the table. 

“Sir,” I said, “with all due respect to you, as 
^y father, I have promised my sword to my King^ 


and never shall it be said that a Mac Ian went back 
on his word because the odds were great.” 

‘‘Silence!” thundered my father. “You are but 
a boy, and have no right to pledge your sword. 
I am the head of this house, and I will have nothing 
to do with this mad folly, nor will I suffer any of 
mine to move in this matter.” 

“Sir, you forget I am no longer a boy; you forget 
your loyalty.” And my voice rose in anger. 
“Stay at home because the odds are great if you 
will, and learn your Prince's doings in the news- 
sheet, but, 'fore Heaven, I will go and maintain 
the family honour, which methinks you have for- 
gotten also.” 

The blood rushed to my father's face, and the 
blue veins stood out on his forehead with an inten- 
sity terrible to witness. He seemed to tower above 
me in his fury, and I almost feared lest he should 
fall in a fit, but I could not draw back; and, 
indeed, my blood was whirling too. Speechless, 
his hand shaking with a passion terrible to behold, 
he pointed to the door. “Go !” he at length broke 
forth. “You are no longer a son of mine 1” 

“Sir,” I began; but the shaking hand still 
pointed to the door, and he struggled with such 
awful intensity to find words wherewith to voice 
his passion that I saw it was vain. 

“Sij", farewell.” And so I left him. 

One hurried visit to my own quarters, whence I 
took all the money I possessed, and, seizing my 
Sword and pistols, I rushed forth from the castle, 


'out through the great gateway, which had not 
been rebarred since the arrival of Glencoe’s mes- 
senger, and down the steep causeway. Little 
recked I if I should miss the path, and break my 
neck. Little thought I whither I hastened through 
the darkness. I ^as an autcast, a homeless 
wandered. Driven forth from the home of my 
fathers, what mattered it whether I lived or died? 

And Eilean? How often has that dear name 
recalled me to my self? Yes; for her sake I must 
live, and for her sake I should conquer. Hence- 
forth love should be my guiding light, and loyalty 
my watchword; and therewith I pulled off my 
bonnet, and pressed the little white cockade to 
my lips. 

I had reached the shore of the loch ; but it was 
too late to cross and say farewell that night, so I 
made for the shed which covered my boat when 
drawn out of the water. There I lay down, close 
by the lapping waves, and, worn out with the 
excitement of the long day, fell into a dreamless 
sleep. 

I woke in the early dawn to find myself no longer 
alone. Roy’s great, rough body was stretched at 
my feet, and in the entrance of the shed sat 
Donald Dhu, looking out over the grey waters. 
Yes; he knew what had happened — all knew — for 
our angry words had been heard throughout the 
castle. And so he had slipped out after me, and, 
guided by the faithful Roy and his own guesses, 
had found me in the boat shed. 


“And now/’ he said, as though it were the ordin- 
ary morning course, “ye will be for crossing to say 
farewell at Glenmore before ye go to Glencoe.” 

“Right, Donald,” I said. “And you?” 

“Where the Master goes, I go.” 

I did not try to dissuade him — not merely would 
it have been useless, but if I were right in obeying 
the summons of the chief, was- it not hrs part to 
follow too? 

I will not linger over my parting with Eilean. 
Sad at heart, .she still kept up a show of gaiety, 
which I knew she was far from feeling. No tears 
did she shed, or sighs did she give, while I was 
with her; but her pale cheeks and sad, wistful 
eyes told their own tale. I told her briefly Wat 
my father consi lered that the Prince had not kept 
faith in coming without aid, and that he refuesd 
to have anything to do with the enterprise. So 
there I was, with only her and Donald in the wide 
world to care if I lived or died. 

“Dear love,” she whispered, softly, “we must 
hope for the best. When the King is come to his 
own again he will pardon your father for your sake; 
and, in the meantime, I will love you for all.” 

Then I called Roy to me, and placed Eilean’s 
hand on his collar, told him that this was his mis- 
tress now, and that he must guard her with his 
life. The great hound seemed to understand, and 
remained quietly by her side ; while she presented 
Donald with a white cockade sewn by her own 
fair fingers. The faithful fellow knelt dovm on one 


knee and kissed her hand; then drawing his d^rk^, 
he swore on the hilt to guard me with his life, nor 
ever to return without me. 

Then I lifted her up in my arms, pressed one 
long, lingering kiss of love on her soft lips, and 
turned away down the glen, with Donald close 
. behind me. I was stopped in a moment by some- 
thing cold and damp thrust into my hand. It was 
Roy, come to say farewell. I patted him on the 
head. 

^‘No, Roy; go back to your mistress — your 
mistress and mine.’^ 

He sprang up, put his two great paws on my 
shoulders, looked wistfully in my face, and then, 
with a short bark of farewell, galloped back to 
Eilean. 

There she stood as I looked back for the last 
time — a slender figure poised on a knoll of high 
ground, one hand on Roy^s collar, and one waving 
farewell to her lover. 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 

SOME VOWS ARE BEST BROKEN. 

On the 20th of October, 1746, his Royal High- 
ness, then newly landed in France after a series of 
extraordinary and almost incredible adventures, 
made a state visit to the King of France at the 
palace of Versailles. 

All the world went down to see his entry. Will 
and I among the rest. We witnessed the proces- 
sion, the gilded coaches, the prancing horses, led 
by walking footmen in royal livery, and lastly his 
Royal Highness himself,^ accompanied by Lord 
Lewis Gordon and the Gentle Lochiel. 

The latter was still wfeak from his wounds and 
the hardships which he had undergone^ but the 
Prince, as has been aptly remarked, was “like the 
Phoenix new risen from the ashes of his misery.’’ 

He glittered like a star from Heaven. His coat 
was of rose-coloured velvet, embroidered with 
silver, and lined with tissue of the same. His 
waistcoat was of gold brocade, the spangled fringe 
set on in scollops; his small clothes were white 
satin. The cockade in his gold-broidered hat, the 
buckles of his shoes, his Orders of St. George and 
St. Andrew, sparkled alike with brilliants of the 
finest water. 

He smiled and bowed graciously in reply to the 
acclomations of the crowd, and so passed on, 
leaving me musing upon the contrast between the 
present occasion and that when last I had seen him. 


I know that my rejoicing over his safe return 
should have excluded all other thoughts, but I 
could not help recalling the bare-kneed lad who 
had tramped so gaily over the heather at the head 
of our little host, and feeling how different he was 
to this fine, scented Prince. 

I had no heart to linger on at Versailles with 
Will, but got my horse, and returned to the 
capital, where I arrived late in the afternoon. 

All our world was in Paris in those days, and I 
expected my father’s arrival every day; yet on 
that afternoon the gay city seemed very sad and 
empty, and I knew not how to kill time. 

Life was always like this now, and seemed to 
hold no brighter vision for the future than my 
old plan of entering King Louis’ service. I had 
had no word from Eilean, no recognition from 
Glenmore; Lady Cameron, ever my true friend 
and mother, was, I knew, lying very ill; indeed, 
the dear lady never recovered the shock of that 
awful night when her home was ravished. 

I knew from Will, who had made it his business 
to unravel the tangled skein of our love, that Eilean 
had been tricked into following Dalmyle in her 
anxiety to prevent the duel. The scoundrel had 
suborned the services of her Flemish waiting- 
woman, and the latter, working on Eilean’s fears 
of foul play, had induced her to venture to what 
she believed to be the place of the encounter, only 
to find herself tricked, and in danger of abduction. 

But, in spite of all this, my prjde stilt stopd 


between us. Had I not rescued her from abduc- 
tion, and had she not left me without a word, and, 
lastly, had I not vowed that I would never return 
till she sent for me? 

It was a foolish quarrel, and right well am I 
ashamed of it now, but God knows it seemed 
serious enough then to ruin the remainder of our 
young lives. 

I wandered about the busy streets until, about 
dusk, I found myself in the quieter one where 
Glenmore had his abode. It was in an old-world 
quarter, deserted by the capr.ce of fashion, and so 
robbed of its one-time, grandeur. 

As I came near the house I noticed that the 
porter^s box and the little courtyard which lay 
between it and the house were alike empty and 
deserted. I halted; it was almost dusk, and “she” 
wa^ somewhere within those gloomy walls — alone, 
perhaps unhappy. How my heart yearned after 
her, but the memory-’ of my rash vow stood between 
us.' 

Still, there could be no) harm in my going into 
the courtyard, td be near her for a little. 

In the fading twilight I made my way across the 
court,! and» sat down, close to the house, on a stone 
bench green with moss and age. Before me stood 
a little fountain, where a battered Cupid held up a 
broken shell. Once upon a time water had fallen 
thence, making silvery music as it dropped; now 
it was empty, silent, dry — a sermon in stone. 


How long I remained there I do not know. 
Only 1 know that it was quite dark, when suddenly 
notes of a harpsichord became audible through an 
open window above me. Then, floatingon the 
&till air, came the mournful words of an old Scot- 
tish ballad, in my darling’s sweet tones. She sang 
on softly, and as* the sad refrain reached me my 
heart swelled to bursting: 

“But me and my ‘true love will never meet 
again 

By the bonnie, bonnie — banks — of — Loch — ” 

She dwelt over the last line, her voice growing 
safter and softer, till she reached the last word but 
one, it died away altogether. The music ceased,, 
and I heard a sob. And this was the lone heart I 
had sworn to protect! 

Then I broke my vow. Up the long staircase 
and through the open door I dashed. 

“Eilean !” 

A little cry, but not of sorrow, and she was in 
my arms, nestling like a dove that has regained 
its home. Mine once more — mine for ever! 

^ » * * * * * * 

At length her weeping eeased, and she raised 
her head falteringly from my shoulder. 

“Oh, Ronald dear, will. you ever forgive me?” 

I stifled her question as a lover should. 

“Can you forgive . t for leaving you so, my 
darling?” I asked, 


‘‘Twas my fault. 

‘'Hush, dearest; let us forget the last few 
months like a bad dream. See, they are gone, and 
we are united, God helping us, never to part again.'^ 

She was just the same as ever, this sweet love 
of inine — and yet not the same. There was the 
same winning smile, the same loving look in the 
blue eyes, the same trustful action as when first 
we plighted our troth— and yet the child I had 
won then was gone, and in her place was a loving , 
understanding woman. 

It was not merely that separation, loneliness, 
and hopelessness had set their mark upon her, 
making her pale and thin— that would soon dis- 
appear, as disappear it did beneath my loving 
care- but the suffering she had gone through had 
brought out the tender woman within. She Was 
was no less beautiful, no older in face, but the 
dawn of womanhood had made her indescribably 
different. At first I knew not whether to be glad 
or sorry. To. have destroyed the innocent child- 
hood which had so become her seemed a Qruel, 
wanton act, for which I was ready to curse myself. 
But when I looked into her eyes again I felt that 
though I might hate myself for having been the 
means of bringing about this subtle change, yet 
to feel aught but joy and happiness for what I saw 
there would be ingratitude worse than folly. 
Thus does an all-wise Providence make of our 
sorrows blessings. 


. J do not know kow’ long we remained thus alon^ 
together. The night had brought complete dark- 
ness, so that 1 could scarcely perceive my darling’s 
face; the stars had come out, and through the 
open window 1 could see lights elsewhere; but so 
we remained supremely happy : ’twas Love’s 
triumph. 

And now, methinks,. my o’er-long-spun tale has 
reached its end. What ueed is there to tell of my 
reconciliation with Glenmore and of the quiet 
wedding which followed? How and where I again 
met my dear father, and how we came to leave our 
asylum in France, and sail away with Will to this 
western land, is a fresh story, and one, moreover, 
which needs no telling to my children. 

Suffice it, then, to say in conclusion that, having 
done so, we were in due course joined by Alan, who 
did not come alone. If I have hitherto omitted all 
reference to his love story it is not for lack of 
sympathy, but because it has taken me all my 
power to tell my own. I will only say that the 
chief reason Witl-has always given for remaining a 
bachelor is, thhit he. knows he cannot hope Tor the 
luck of his two comrades, and he does not wish to 
grow envious in his old age. But, besides his 
bonny bride, Alan brought with him as many of 
his own clansmen as he could persuade to cross; 
the ocean, and not a few of mine. Chief among 
the latter was faithful old M’Neil, who had returned 
to Dunleven when my father set out from Scot- 


land. It was some consolation to me for the loss 
of my dear foster-brother Donald to be able to 
render happy the declining years of his father, 
who lived to a green old age. Indeed, it is largely 
due to him that these memoirs have come to be 
written, for it was he who first gave our children 
their appetite for the stories of the ’45. 

So away here in the New Scotland of the west a 
new Dunleven and a new Glenmore have grown 
up, but to describe their birth and making would 
require another and even larger volume than that 
which I have already penned. There is no need 
for me to tell you, my children, why I dropped my 
title and am plain- Ronald Maclan. When my 
eldest grandson becomes head of the house he can 
choose for himself if he will get the attainder 
removed, and become my Lord Dunleven; but I 
doubt not that he will follow his father’s decision, 
that he can endeavour to be a true gentleman as 
he is, and beyond that there is nothing higher. 

And now what shall I say of my sweet Eilean — 
still my sweetheart after the forty years of our 
married life? A soft hand is laid on mine, and a 
sweet voice in my ear declares that I have said 
far too much already. Ah no ! Time has given us 
silver hairs for golden; but the gold in our hearts 
has never paled, and I could never say half enough 
in praise of all she has been to me. God grant that 
when the end comes it may; take us both together 
to where our love shall be eternal. 


So ends my story. Broken are the clans, 
csattered far and wide the gallant lads who fought 
and bled ’mid rock and heather, yet so long as 
rock shall endure and heather dye the hills with 
purple, the gallant spirit of their fathers shall live 
on in their descendants, nerving them to ;fight, 
and if nee be to die, for Love and Loyalty. 



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